


Creswell Crags

by gwyllion



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyllion/pseuds/gwyllion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur takes ill, he finds himself in a strange environment that echoes his past and gives him hope for the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Creswell Crags

Merlin’s mouth is moving, but you can’t hear his words through the fog in your head and the rain pouring down. Hengroen’s reins slip cold between your numb fingers. You drag your boots across the sopping grass, the rain muffling Merlin’s syllables so they blend into a series of moans and huffs, nothing recognizable to your tired ears. Your hand shakes unsteadily, patting a single stroke down the horse’s wet hide assuring him that you’ll find shelter among the rocky outcrops and torrent-bent trees.

“Come on, Arthur. Let’s go,” Merlin’s lips are moving again, but you can only stand still and shiver.

“We need to keep patrolling,” your words slur through the space between your clattering teeth. You try to slap Merlin’s hands away, but he calls you to action by taking the crossbow from you and slinging your left arm over his shoulder.

“This way,” Merlin seems to be saying over the wind.

“We must continue. I’m fine,” you protest in a sputter, even though you know that you’re not.

It was your idea to travel this far from Camelot. With the King dead and you wearing the new crown, you carry on in your father’s footsteps. When the report of sorcery reached your council, you took up arms in your father’s name. It’s the least you can do to honour his memory.

Your councillors expect you to be gone for a fortnight, while you patrol the realm’s perimeter. You and your men have paired up to search the region. Gwaine with Leon, and Elyan with Percival, they will scour a manageable segment of the border and you’ll reconvene the day after tomorrow. For now, you travel with only your manservant at your side. The two of you have undertaken a similar journey a dozen times over the years. You should have known better than to keep silent when you began to feel ill, but it’s easier to maintain a steady course than to show weakness in front of Merlin. Despite your implied friendship, he is still a servant, after all.

You urge one of your feet to move ahead of the other. It takes all your strength to shake the rain out of your eyes so you can see where your footfall hits the earth.

Perhaps it was the mushrooms that Merlin sliced into yesterday’s stew or the sloe berries that you ate by the handful beside the stream where you camped last night that have weakened your mind and your body. Placing blame on Merlin makes you feel uneasy. And you know you’ve eaten the same ripe berries a hundred times.

You told yourself you’d feel better if you continued searching for an encampment of magic users on the borders of your kingdom, fulfilling the goals your father instilled in you since you were a boy. Uther’s edicts still weigh heavy on your heart.

Ignoring the ache in your throat and the tiredness of your limbs, you plodded forward, sleep-stung eyes scanning the leafless horizon for the enemy.

And then it began to rain.

“I’ve found a cave where we can take shelter,” Merlin says, his lips curling over the words that reach your ears long after his mouth has closed.

Your eyes search his face. The streams of rain have soaked his hair into a sleek black. Droplets fall from his lashes and cascade over his cheekbones to be caught by his tongue when his mouth pants against the storm. Your arms feel like they each carry a heavy sword, although your hands are empty. The dampness of raindrops chills your fingers white, and saps the strength from your shoulders.

You hang your head. You don’t deserve to be called a king, not in your current state. An enemy wouldn’t need a bolt or a mace to fell you where you stand. You catch the reins in your fingers again and Hengroen’s gentle tug is enough to drop you to your knees.

“Arthur!” Merlin is calling, but your eyes roll back in your head.

You buckle. By some grace, you catch yourself before you hit the ground, before Merlin heaves you closer. You reluctantly acquiesce to his will, letting him pull you along, the crooked ground twisting your ankles in your boots so cold, such cold toes, and what was it your father taught you? When the trees were stripped bare, their leaves dancing across the ground on an autumn breeze and the smell of snow in the air? Keep moving. Keep wriggling your toes to restore their warmth. You hear his voice, remembering to move your toes and your fingers against the wet cold.

You can see your breath, fogging the air.

Merlin shoves you beneath the overhang of a slot between the crags that tower over the forest and meadow. The cold rain drips down your back from your hair. The cave’s chill makes you all the colder. You haven’t been paying enough attention to your travels today. The late morning brought you to the mountainous edge of the kingdom. From here, the tales have reached Camelot on the lips of the storytellers who wished to share their terror with the meek-minded who would listen. There are sorcerers in these woods.

After walking an excruciating distance, Merlin unhitches your arm from his shoulder.

“Arthur,” he says, his eyes scanning your face in the dim light that seeps into the cave.

You look at him as if he’s someone you’ve never seen before. You pout your lips, puffy and swollen with fever. The cavern floor is dry below your feet. You slide down Merlin’s height to sit on the ground. Your wet clothes absorb the dirt into them. You’d give anything to be back in Camelot, snug in your bedchamber right now, asleep beneath the soft sheets and warm quilts, to awaken only when Merlin rouses you for breakfast. For now, the dirt cave floor will have to suffice.

“Arthur, we need to stop for the night,” Merlin says, sinking to his knees and cupping your clammy chin in his palm. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were ill?”

You try to open your eyes, but your eyelids will only slit the smallest amount before they squint shut against the spikes of pain.

“We should have stopped as soon as you began to get sick,” Merlin prattles on like a mother hen. “You shouldn’t have insisted we travel onward when the storm clouds gathered. We would have had time to pitch a tent if we had stopped in that grove of elms we passed early this afternoon—”

He stops talking when you circle his wrist with fingers wrinkled by the rain.

“Fire, Merlin,” you use the last bit of strength to push the words across your lips. “We need a fire.”

Any simpleton of a servant would have understood the need for warmth by now, but some days it seems like Merlin lacks the sense that most people possess. After a moment for thought, Merlin is gone. You raise your heavy head from where it is slumped against the cave wall. Your eyes try to follow him as he pickets the horses inside of the entrance and rummages through a saddlebag for supplies. You barely notice that he has returned to you when you feel the damp Camelot-red cape settle around your shoulders, Merlin’s hands smoothing it into place. The cape’s embroidered edges become muddy when they make contact with the ground where the droplets have trickled from your fingertips to mix with an age’s accumulation of dirt and dust.

“I’ll start a fire,” Merlin says. He gives your shoulder a squeeze and he’s gone again.

You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep, but when you next open your eyes it’s because you feel the scratch of a branch across your cheek.

“Watch out,” you call, jolted to alertness, your voice breaking sharp and throat aching as if you’ve swallowed shards of glass.

The downed birch is twice as long as Merlin, but half as fat. Merlin drags it into the cave and lays it at the wall opposite your feet. The brittle forks of its branches scrape lines across the dirt floor.

“Sorry,” Merlin says in apology for his ineptitude at keeping the twigs out of your face.

You watch as his long fingers work to strip the remaining leaves, curled with autumn’s death, from the tree’s thin limbs. Your hands find their way around your knees and you clasp the wet fabric of your trousers to your skin to keep yourself from shaking. Your eyes close again and you dream of the sorcerers that inhabit these woods. Your goal of finding them and bringing them to justice is never far from your mind, no matter that you feel like you want to die right here, rather than take another breath.

You startle to the crack of wood being split as Merlin breaks the pieces into lengths that will build a fire. You’re certain he’ll never get a fire started in this weather, but you don’t open your eyes again until you smell the damp wood smouldering before it dries enough to catch and hold a flame.

“Better?” Merlin asks as he feeds another twig onto the red glow of new coals. You can only nod your head and loosen your grip on your knees.

Merlin places a cold hand on your forehead. He has changed into his dry sleeping garments, protected by the seal of oilcloth in the horses’ saddlebags. He lifts the cloak away from you and you feel the warmth of the fire seep into your wet clothes.

At once you feel apologetic for all the times you’ve thought of Merlin as an idiot. You have saved his life more often than you care to remember, but at times like these, it is he who must be the strong one. He who strips your wet clothes from you while you shiver in the firelight. He who strings a line to dry them at the edge of the warmth’s reach. He who helps you into your dry woollens and tucks you into your bedroll.

He makes the meal and feeds you sips of stew from a wooden spoon, his eyes scanning your face for the source of your discomfort.

He tends the fire. 

He needs no blade to protect him. No champion to come to his aid.

“Drink this,” he says, pressing the cup into your hand. The corner of your mouth turns up at the thought that Merlin has travelled the same course as you these days, yet he is none the worse for wear. He is a servant. You are a king. What gods keep him fresh and free from illness?

“What is it?” you ask, wincing after taking a sip of some herbal concoction that you’d like to spit out. You don’t even recognize the rasp of your own voice. It’s not the cave’s hollow passageways distorting the sound, but the burn in your throat that makes you think you’ve tasted fire.

“Do you really think Gaius would let me out of his sight without making me bring a supply of medicinal herbs?” Merlin says, busying himself with cleaning the bowls and the cookpot.

You nod your head and tip the cup toward him before letting the liquid slide across your tongue, grateful for Merlin’s brightness, the only patch of cheer in this otherwise wretched day. The liquid seems to acquire an aftertaste of honey as you tentatively let it drip down your throat.

“It will help you sleep,” Merlin says, tossing more wood onto the fire as the flames build and flicker onto the cave walls.

Merlin helps you to your feet and you both relieve yourselves by the cave’s entrance, piss mixing with the rain that sweeps across the crags, threatening to dampen your clothing again. You feel weak, like a child who needs to be helped to bed by a nursemaid.

Merlin leaves the cookpot outside to fill with the rain, water enough for breakfast. He checks on the horses.

You try not to need Merlin’s hand that steadies you by your elbow as you walk the steps back into the cave. The brew has helped the pain in your throat, but the muzziness that fills your head still makes you feel as if you’ll lie down, never to awaken.

Merlin settles you into your bedroll again, the fabric still as warm as you left it, but you shiver just the same. Before you can object, Merlin slides his own bedroll near. He fixes the openings so they are matched against each other. From inside his bedroll, he pulls himself against your back, his hand smoothing the cloth so it covers you both.

You flinch with the cool contact until your heat mingles with Merlin’s and you finally feel warm again, despite your legs that quake with bone-deep chills.

“You’re still burning up,” Merlin says, a whisper in your ear.

“I don’t mean to be,” your voice cracks like the sputter of flame Merlin has kindled in the firepit.

Merlin shoves a knee into the back of your thigh.

“You can’t help it,” Merlin reminds you.

You sense that Merlin wants to say more. Perhaps he wishes to call you a prat or a dollophead, but even Merlin has the good sense to restrain himself when contemplating the death of a king. His chest is warm against your back. He slides a soothing hand across your arm as you lie enfolded in half of his bedroll and all of your own. His fingertips graze your knuckles.

“Merlin,” you whisper.

“Sire,” Merlin’s voice is on the edge of sleep.

“If anything should happen to me,” you begin. “Anything bad...” you lick your lips and turn your head to inform him that he should have a plan in place in case you don’t survive the night, a way to get your body back to Camelot— when something catches your eye.

Merlin hums, encouraging you to continue speaking, his eyes half-closed with tiredness. Undoubtedly, he is oblivious to the message you’re about to deliver.

“Can you see that?” you ask Merlin, nodding to guide his attention to the image on the wall above your heads.

He shimmies against you to get a better look and you know he sees it too, streaks of ochre blended with the juice of berries. The faded lines intersect on the cave wall, some ancient drawing left by the people who dwelled in these lands at the beginning of time.

“People drew it a long time ago,” Merlin mumbles, unimpressed. He buries his nose in the nape of your neck.

You shift your hips and slump onto your back so you can get a better look at the scene in the firelight. It hurts to move, but you fit yourself around Merlin, your fever-chilled limbs craving his warmth.

“Shhh… you must try to sleep, Arthur,” Merlin says, adjusting the weight of his arm across your chest. “We’ll meet with the knights and head back to Camelot so you can be treated properly by Gaius.”

“I don’t need Gaius,” you croak, wishing you could muster enough strength to nudge Merlin with an elbow. Your tongue hovers on the word _idiot,_ but it suddenly seems unfair.

Merlin cards his fingers through your hair, drying the strands in the warmth. “You need to sleep,” he says.

“I know,” you say, quiet.

You don’t know why, but you trust Merlin more than ever in this moment. In your deteriorating state, you trust him with your life. But you fear that the recognition that you have _always_ trusted him comes too late. You bite your lip and make yourself promise to do as he asks.

You let your head fall back into the bedroll, but your eyes stay open. You squint at the wall, trying to discern one line of ruddy colour from the other, images and shapes taking form in the flickering light until you can’t keep your eyes open any longer.

You don’t remember.

Merlin doesn’t remember.

But the canvas of earth and rock remembers.

A flaming chunk of wood hisses and pops.

In the play of shadow and light, the living ochre remembers the time when you once slept in this very place, your deathbed hard beneath your back.

You rest on a pile of furs, tokens of honour from your people. Outside the cave’s entrance, they have gathered to pay tribute to their fallen leader. Although death has not yet claimed you, they know as well as you do, that nature spares no man. Inside the cave the fire glows bright, illuminating the walls with reminders of the past, conquests won and battles lost. Game hunted and meat preserved— nourishment for your tribe in the long cold months to come.

And the cold will come.

Merlin has seen the cold in his scrying pool. Beside the night fire, he has told you of a land where the rains fall as snow, where the cold makes the lakes freeze solid and the rivers cease to flow with the clear water that quenches your people’s thirst. He has let you touch his hand when he has drawn it from the pool and you have never felt anything colder than his fingertips. When you shook with worry and fear for what will come, he has embraced you and instilled his power in you to stop your tears.

You’ll be gone, but you have sworn to protect your tribe even in your death.

Merlin knows much because of the power he possesses. He accepts it as the way of life, the way of nature. He has no choice, as he is kindred to the seasons. With a gentle murmur he has assured you that you have done your best to prepare for the time of endless winter. There is nothing more to do, but wait until the earth chooses to claim you for its own.

You feel death in the ragged wound that pierces your chest, in your dry throat, and in your head. You need. You ache. You gasp for air, a lingering breath. And just as Merlin dispatched your assailant on the battlefield with a bolt of fire from his outstretched hand, that very same hand catches your fingers and courses magic through them to alleviate your pain.

“My people,” you say in the language that only Merlin knows, and Merlin presses your knuckles to his mouth, his soft lips caressing your skin.

The seasons have been good to the people who roam the woodlands of this green land, but as Merlin has foreseen, the endless storm is on its way. Your fingers skim across the fur of his cloak, the scent of animal musk rising in the air. He presses your palm to his painted chest and, for a moment, you think you can feel the beat of drumming beneath his ribs, but it is only the drums of your tribesmen echoing through the cave walls. They drown out the cries of children who will mourn your passing.

“You have done well,” Merlin says, knowing your worry for the survival of the tribe. He knows of your regret that you were unable to add to their number, ensuring their survival further with the addition of hunters to provide game and gatherers to make use of the land’s bounty.

He doesn’t know the pain in your heart because you’ve never had enough time to teach him to wield a spear.

But your time for hunting, and Merlin’s time for gathering, have ended.

You were a warrior once, with only a club in your hand. Without sandals on your feet or clothing on your back, you became a ruler of men, a champion of the people, a fighter, with the skill to wage war upon the enemies of your lands. You hunted the marauding beasts that threatened your people, the same people who will immortalize you, instilling the spirit of life into your image on these cave walls, to magick you to eternal life, long after you are gone.

The ochre will run red with your lifeblood again.

The thought makes you sad, for once, although you have never feared your death. The anticipation of the imagery the people will paint on these walls brings you closer, serves as a reminder of the future to come. You curl closer to Merlin, feeling his warmth as he sits on the furs beside you, a comfort more rich than the coat of the woolly bison or the soft pelt of the cave lion.

Merlin looks away, and with a flash of gold in his eyes, the fire’s blaze rises strong. You can feel the warmth creep across the cave floor to where you lie. You try not to notice the glistening in Merlin’s eyes when he returns his attention to you.

You squeeze his hand, your mortal strength decimated by a mortal’s blow.

“Merlin,” you say his name and there is but one more regret.

You regret the days that Merlin will spend alone.

He lies beside you now, stroking his fingers through your hair. His eyes hold the same brilliance as the first day when you arrived in the part of the forest where he dwelled.

You were sent by your father to conquer, but instead it was you who were conquered.

Before you even knew his name, Merlin had disarmed you with a wave of his hand and the words of magic on his lips. An untried warrior, sent to pillage and claim, you found yourself captured by the young shaman’s eyes and put to work by the people who wandered this land.

To your father’s dismay, you escaped the restraints of his traditions and adopted the ways of Merlin’s tribe. You dwelled among them, while the moon rose and fell, until they gathered by the fire at the end of the earth’s longest day. The tribe was most fertile then, the men planting seeds that would blossom into children the following spring.

As the feast began, you smiled at the girls who had painted the soles of their feet with red ochre, wondering which maiden would choose you for their mate. Dancing to the drums by the flickering firelight, the crimson powder guided their feet across the coals to make their choice. None were more surprised than you when the shaman smeared his soles in red and crossed the fiery coals to stand with his eyes on the ground in front of you.

The elders whispered that it had never been done before, but who were they to argue? This was their shaman who had decided to take a mate. They feared that their disapproval would bring the curse of dangerous spirits to the tribe, for who knew the future and what destiny lay ahead, if not their seer and their guide?

You cupped Merlin’s chin in your hand and urged him to lift his eyes from the ground. The heat of his golden stare travelled upward, from your ankles, decorated with a strand of sinew woven with the sharp white teeth of the beasts you had felled, to the claws of the cave bear that adorned your neck.

You nodded. Yes, you would go with him, the tribe’s magical shaman. You watched his eyes light up and a shy smile curl across his lips.

Yes, you would go.

You wanted nothing more.

When the feasting ended, he took your hand and led you through the narrow passageway to where he made his sleeping place in the caves. He told you his name was _Merlin_ , and laughed when you didn’t know the word for your own name in his language. He watched your eyes widen with delight when he lit the tallow pots with a blink and a flash of fire.

He pushed you down onto the soft furs and rutted against you. For all his inexperience, he wasn’t soft with his exploring fingers and lips and tongue. When he lifted the fur away from his loins, you clawed at that which gave you the most pleasure. You discovered the taste of his sweat and his spit.

He mounted you and took you, using himself as the receptacle to draw your seed from you, although he could bear no child. He spent himself on your chest instead, making you touch your finger to the shimmering slickness in wonder.

You learned each other’s ways and stood together on the battlefield and in the caves, inseparable, always working your bodies hard, day and night. For the good of the tribe, you grew into a warrior and leader, until you met one enemy too many.

The pain in your chest aches worse now. The wound bleeds. There is nothing more that Merlin can do to comfort you in your mortal form. Despite his power, Merlin knows that all life must end someday. The drums seem louder. The voices of those who mourn your passing shake the walls of the cave with their vibrations, just as the walls shook in the beginning of time when they settled into the caverns and passages that you learned to call your home.

It has taken years for Merlin to prepare you for this moment. He has assured you that your transition will be swift and painless. You trust him, knowing in your heart that he couldn’t bear to see you suffer. You squeeze his hand one last time. You have enriched each other’s lives beyond the expectations of a warlord’s son who stumbled onto a peaceful tribe and a fatherless shaman.

The spirit you see in Merlin’s eyes is unexpected. You try to speak, but he smiles and presses a finger to your lips to hush you. You sense that he has changed the plans that the two of you had made together. You tilt your head and look at him inquisitively, curious to see what he has in mind. He steps away from your resting-place and raises his arms in the air. You watch as he throws his head back, the sacred words known only to him spilling from his lips.

“Ic firenlust forsciepe þa heardnebba. Ic firen me lufigend clymmþ on me hrycges. Swicum deaþlicnessa, asittean thaes eormengrund. Ac wit gegegnan innan þa eftwyrde swicum ond eadlufa edstaðelungum,” he commands.

Your heart beats on edge, a tremor of fear mixed with the awe you feel when you see Merlin begin to change. His dark locks spin into narrow tendrils that wind over his back and cascade across his shoulders to smooth downward onto his chest. The fine hairs gleam black in the firelight.

You thought you’d have to leave him to the loneliness of a life spent without you, but now his purpose becomes clear as each strand that covers him winnows into a sleek feather. His fingernails merge into one hollow quill and a spread of feathers burst from beneath his arms.

The roar from Merlin’s fire fills the cave. Your ears feel as if they might explode from the sound. Merlin’s eyes shine with a shimmer of brilliant gold when they meet yours. As strong as your chest had pained you before, now the ache is replaced with only warmth. Your eyebrows furrow with worry for what might happen next, but Merlin nuzzles his black beak beneath your ear. He tucks his wing behind your head and lifts you onto his back. You use the ladder of Merlin’s quills to find your footing, your bare feet slipping through the soft black barbs. Your position on his back feels secure.

You run a hand down Merlin’s neck, your fingers carding through the short feathers that sprout from where once there was only pale skin. The tips of his wings touch the cavern’s walls when he spreads them wide.

You plunge your fists into the mass of feathers and cling to his back without fear of falling. With a beat of Merlin’s powerful wings, a mighty gust of air lifts you off the ground. Merlin’s path is steady and sure as he banks his way through the cave’s passageways, his feathers grazing the smooth stone.

The sounds of the tribal drums await you, just outside the cave entrance. You fly through the opening and pass overhead while your people bow their heads to the ground.

You try to catch your breath as Merlin soars higher and higher above the crags, your people fading into shapes like the tiniest of pebbles below. You press your cheek to Merlin’s soft feathers and speak to him above the gentle rush of wind.

“You’re leaving them?” you say, although you can’t bear to hear Merlin’s answer to your question.

Merlin twists his great glossy head to the side and assures you. “I’m sorry, but I must,” he says, the rush of wind sliding over his beak.

“We can’t both leave, Merlin. What will become of them?” you cry. You now recognize that Merlin had no intention of remaining behind in the caves without you. This was his plan all along, to follow you into the realm beyond your death.

“They will have to find their way without us this time,” Merlin says, as he glides through the air, levelling his path between the earth and the sun.

“Merlin, it worries me,” you say, clinging tighter to his neck. “It seems wrong for us to leave the tribe without both their leader and their shaman.”

While you have no regrets about any time you entered battle for the benefit of your tribe, Merlin does not deserve this burden, a journey that will take him away from his people, just so he can remain at your side. 

“I know,” Merlin says, his human voice as sympathetic as you have ever heard. “But sometimes we need to change course when there’s no reason to do what we have intended. There’ll be another time for us. Another day will come for you to lead your people. I promise you this.”

Your heart shudders at Merlin’s words. It seems wrong to leave your people, even if Merlin speaks the truth. “Can you do something for them?” you ask. “Leave them with something to remember us by?”

You strengthen your grip on Merlin’s feathers as he swoops toward your tribe, all of their eyes raised to the sky in awe.

“We’ll leave them a sign that will prove our good intent, and they’ll learn that you will return to rule over them again,” Merlin says.

Merlin dives for the ground. You feel his magic course through you as his eyes flash gold, igniting an inferno for all to see, a ball of fire that balances upon the earth. Your people cheer and chant, grateful for Merlin’s gift of fire, a blaze that will be coveted and kept kindled for all time.

Even from this distance, you can tell what Merlin has done. Images move across the licks of flames as the fireball spins. Merlin has made them a scrying fire, something that will help the tribe to see beyond your departure, a glimpse into the future that will guide their actions for the rest of their days.

You cling to Merlin and fly on a raven’s wing black as night, soaring toward the sun.

The angle is so steep that you feel like you might slide off Merlin’s back, so you dig your fingers in deeper, but they are pried loose as soon as you find any purchase. Your feet scramble against the sleek feathers. The sun is so bright that you can’t see beyond your own empty hands. You can’t gain your hold.

You slip.

You fall.

“Merrrrlin!”

Merlin’s hand is cool on your forehead. You open your eyes and he looks angry. He clutches your fists and you open your hands for him, noticing the strands of his dark hair stuck to your palms.

“Am I dead?” you ask with a sleep-choked voice.

“Not this time,” Merlin huffs. “But if you keep pulling my hair, I’ll kill you myself.”

You scoff at him and bury your head deeper into the bedroll. “You’ll be hung for treason, threatening your king like that,” you say.

“After all I’ve done for you?” Merlin laughs.

You can only smile at his insolence. You examine your hands and you brush Merlin’s hair from between your fingers. Each strand is as dark as the raven’s feathers that you clutched in your dream. Merlin ducks when you try to press them back onto his head.

It takes that long for you to realize that your legs are tangled together with Merlin’s, and the bedroll is warm with the type of heat that doesn’t come from feverishness of the sickly kind.

“Someone is feeling better today,” Merlin says, nudging you with a bony knee.

“I am,” you say, discovering one more strand of Merlin’s hair caught in a fingernail. You pluck the wayward bit loose and pinch it between your thumb and forefinger.

“It’s a wonder I have any hair left on my head, the way you were clawing at me,” Merlin says.

“I believe this one also belongs to you,” you say, touching the strand to Merlin’s hair. In the silence of morning, he doesn’t pull away. You let your fingers slip through his dark locks, and you notice for the first time how silky they feel between your fingers.

“So, I suppose we’ll be resuming the patrol today?” Merlin asks.

You slide your hand to the back of Merlin’s neck, letting your thumb skim the smooth skin beneath his ear. His pulse beats as steadily as an ancient tribal drum.

“No, I think I’m done with that now,” you say. You want to kiss Merlin, to see if he remembers what you shared in the past. Your eyes drift to the blood-red lines that decorate the cave wall. The warrior with his club and the wild beasts of the earth and the fire-making shaman look down upon you. You decide against kissing Merlin now. There’ll be time for sorting that out when you get back to Camelot. “Where’s my breakfast?” you ask instead.

Merlin snorts at you and extracts himself from the bedroll. “I’ll fetch the cookpot and get the water boiling,” he says.

“See that you’re quick about it,” you say.

You slump back down into the warmth he leaves behind. As you watch Merlin walk toward the cave’s entrance, you could swear that the soles of his feet are tinged with red ochre against the dirt and the dust.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks: To my Merlin Reverse Big Bang artist chrunchy_crunck for the great prompt and great attitude, and to my helpful beta team: bronctastic, gilli_ann, and stagarden who did an awesome job at keeping me in line.  
> A/N: This is a pinch-hit for merlinreversebb. I used the opportunity to experiment with second person, which may or may not work for you. I have never read Clan of the Cave Bear or seen the film, but gilli_ann, my Paleolithic-loving beta, suggested I include some red ochre in my fic, so I went ahead and did so. For those who are curious, you can learn more about the Creswell Crags [ here.](http://www.creswell-crags.org.uk/)


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